


work from home

by toewsin (haroldslouis)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic, Falling In Love, Hockey Player Patrick Kane, M/M, Personal Assistant Jonathan Toews, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-10-12 14:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20566160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haroldslouis/pseuds/toewsin
Summary: Patrick Kane gets a personal assistant. A terrible, Canadian,hotassistant.





	1. one

When Patrick hurries into the United Center on Monday morning, Amber is waiting for him outside of the locker room. He sees her disapproving frown from where he’s currently at and gives her an apologetic grimace. 

He holds up his hands defensively. “I’m sorry, I truly am.” He’d been Skyping on his phone with his sisters for about an hour last night, and had forgotten to plug it into the charger. Neither his alarm nor the task notification for the interview had gone off, since his phone had died somewhere in the night.

Amber sighs after he tells her. “This is the second time this month you’ve missed an interview, Pat, and it’s only the eleventh. We had to get Duncs to do the ESPN interview.” She sounds disappointed, and Patrick feels his fingers do a nervous twitch.

“Shit, I bet they weren’t happy with that.” He slides his fingers under his beanie, scratching the side of his head. His skin and curls are warm from his hasty attempt to get to the rink as soon as possible.

“They weren’t,” Amber states, glancing down at her tablet. “I know your focus is on hockey, and I get that, but you can’t keep forgetting about this stuff. It sends out the wrong message and it also makes the organization look bad.”

“I know,” Patrick nods, something in his stomach sinking. “I thought about it last night, even laid out the outfit Gina sent to me. But then this morning - with the alarms. You know I got here as soon as I could, right?”

Amber takes a look at her watch. “Still thirty minutes too late, the guys from ESPN are loading up their equipment as we speak.” She looks up and gives him a slightly pitying smile. “You know we could hire someone for you, right? To keep track of this stuff.”

Patrick makes a face. “I don’t know ‘bout that, Amber.” He knows she means well, but he has no need for someone to babysit him. 

“Sharpy had a PA back when he made the move,” Amber shrugs. “Now he’s got the hang of it himself, or Abby will remind him of it.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have a significant other to kick me out of bed,” Patrick points out. “I think that should be taken into account in my case.”

He can tell Amber is resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She tends to do that a lot around him. 

“That’s exactly why a PA would help. I know you, Pat. You’re incredibly dedicated and on top of things when it comes to hockey,  _ except _ on the scheduling and planning part. Get a PA to help you out for a bit, until you’ve got it down.”

Patrick hums, worrying his front teeth over his bottom lip. “I’ll ask Sharpy," he concedes. "Maybe whoever helped him out is still around, if dealing with Sharpy didn’t make them fling themselves off of a bridge.”

This time Amber does roll her eyes.

\--

And that is how Patrick finds himself looking for a personal assistant at 24 years old, in his sixth season of lighting up the ice for the Blackhawks. The woman who spent a year as Sharpy’s assistant had moved on to a different career, but she had passed Sharpy along with a card of someone she knew in the business.

Patrick frowns down at the business card in his hand. He holds it up between his fingers and turns it over. The back is completely black, white letters spelling out the name:  _ Jonathan Toews, personal assistant.  _ Underneath is a small list of an email address and two phone numbers, one cell number and one for a landline. 

Patrick taps his foot on the floor as he takes out his phone from his pocket. He types in the number to the landline and dials. The dial tone rings for three times, when he hears a click. 

“Good afternoon, this is Toews.” 

The voice is deep and monotonous. Patrick frowns at the letters spelled out on the business card. Maybe he’s got the wrong person?

“Um, yeah, hi,” he quickly says, realizing he’s been silent for a few seconds. “I’m, uh, looking for a Jonathan Toes?”

He hears a huff through the phone, a throat being cleared. “Yes, that’s me. Jonathan Toews. To whom am I speaking?”

Patrick raises his eyebrows.  _ Okay then.  _ “Oh, it’s Patrick Kane,” he replies, flicking the business card onto his coffee table. He sinks back into the cushions of his couch. “I got your card from Patrick Sharp. A friend of yours was once his PA and gave him your card. I think her name’s Melissa?”

“Patrick Kane?” he hears, a slightly disbelieving tone in Jonathan’s voice. 

“Yeah, uh, from the Blackhawks.”

“I know who you are.” The _duh_ isn't said, but Patrick hears it anyway.

“Um, okay, so,” Patrick says, gesturing with his hand in the air. “The PR coach and the board are kind of annoyed with me, since I’m missing all these interviews and charity things. They want me to get a PA, someone to help me with my schedule.”

“Okay?” Jonathan sounds skeptical.

“Exactly,” Patrick emphasizes. “So, you wanna do it?”

“Do I wanna--_what_?” Jonathan sputters. “Hold on.”

“If you don’t, that’s fine, but I’m gonna need a reference for someone else. Do you know anyone?”

“Hold on,” Jonathan says again, stressing the words. “You need a PA because you’re missing work-related appointments?”

“And basically every other appointment in my life,” Patrick provides. He throws the remote up in the air, catching it with the same hand. He drops his head back to rest on the back of the couch, looking at the ceiling.  Jonathan Toews sounds Canadian .

“Alright,” Jonathan says slowly. “So appointments in general. You need someone to coordinate it.”

“Yes,” Patrick says, throwing up the remote again. He fumbles the catch and it hits his brow bone. “Ow.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Uh, so you wanna?”

“Do I wanna?” Jonathan repeats, sounding bewildered. 

“Yeah, I kinda need a PA as soon as possible,” Patrick explains. “I’ve got an interview next week and I don’t know if it’s on Monday morning or Tuesday afternoon. I feel like it keeps changing every time I check.”

He hears a sigh on the other end of the line but then Jonathan’s voice comes back up. 

“Here's what we're going to do. First,” Jonathan says, “We’ll have to schedule a meeting to see whether this is gonna work. I know Melissa’s contract and everything went through the organization, so I will need to get in contact with them as well.”

“Great,” Patrick says, thrusting the remote in the air. “But about the meeting…”

“Yes, we can discuss it at the rink after practice. Wouldn’t want you to forget it,” Jonathan replies dryly. 

Patrick lets out a relieved sigh. “Awesome, thanks. I got practice tomorrow morning from nine until eleven.”

It’s quiet for a bit, but then Jonathan replies: “I can be there at eleven thirty. Does that work for you, Mr. Kane?”

“Yeah, of course. Call me Patrick.”

“Okay, Patrick. I need to hang up now, I’ve got a call scheduled at two. Could you email me some details on where exactly we’ll meet tomorrow? I’d hate to get caught up at the entrance.”

“Sure,” Patrick nods, shifting the phone to his other ear. “I can do that. Do I, like, need to bring anything?”

“Do you have a planner?” Jonathan asks.

“No?” 

“Well." Patrick wonders how Jonathan manages to put so much judgement into a single word. “Then just bring yourself, Patrick. I’ll ask around to get an overview of your training and game schedule.”

“Sweet. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

\--

His wet curls are still clinging to the nape of his neck when he walks out of the locker room the following morning. He rubs at an itch on his collarbone, tugging the fabric of his collar straight. The bag skate did a number on him, his legs feeling slow and heavy. He’s feeling a little off, slightly apprehensive about the meeting with Jonathan. He sounded nice enough on the phone, if you ignore the blunt remarks. There’s a solid possibility that he’s a stuck-up asshole who’ll just be shaking his head at Patrick’s inability to adult like a normal person. He’s already aware of that, thank you very much. He doesn’t necessarily want one dedicated person to remind him of the fact at all times. If his feet are dragging a little across the floor, he’ll just blame it on the bag skate.

He’s nearing the stairs when he sees Leanne walking towards him, smiling. “Look at you, all dressed up,” she remarks, nodding at his shirt and tie. “I just sat a guy named Jonathan Toews down in our lounge. Is he here for you?”

“Yeah, he’s a PA,” Patrick says. He mirrors Leanne’s expression. “I know.”

“Amber’s idea?” she asks. At Patrick’s morose nod, she laughs. “You need it, though. We should’ve gotten you one last year but we thought it’d work out.”

“Not this time,” Patrick admits. “Let's hope this guy can help.”

“Good luck,” Leanne says, giving him a squeeze on his arm as she walks past him. 

Patrick continues down the hallway, going up a flight of stairs towards the front office lounge. He pushes the door open, heading inside. The water cooler in the corner bubbles up as he closes the door. He drags his eyes away from it to look around the room. 

The lounge is empty except for one person. By one of the windows overlooking Damen Avenue, sits Jonathan Toews. Patrick makes his way over, taking in Jonathan’s short brown hair and dark brown eyes. There’s a five o’clock shadow on his jawline that becomes more pronounced as he turns his head, hearing Patrick approach. 

“Hello, good morning,” Jonathan says, his voice just as deep as it sounded over the phone. He stands up from his chair as Patrick reaches the table. He’s tall, towering a few inches over Patrick. His suit jacket is slung over the back of his chair, a dark blue tie clipped to his white shirt. 

“Hey, morning,” Patrick replies, shaking Jonathan’s outstretched hand. “Thanks for coming around so soon. I know it was short notice.” He sits down in the chair across from Jonathan, pulling himself closer to the table. Jonathan’s sitting down as well, taking out a notebook from the leather messenger bag on the seat next to him. 

“It’s fine. I’m in between clients at the moment, so the phone call came at a good time for me. By the way - call me Jonny. I don’t really go by Jonathan.”

“Okay,” Patrick nods, drumming the tips of his fingers on the table top. While Jonny’s going through his notebook, he takes in his appearance. He looks a few years older than Patrick, maybe near the end of his twenties. His skin is tan, even now that they’re near the end of September. He notes the sharp jut of Jonny’s jawline before Jonny looks back up at him, and Patrick briefly looks away towards the windows.

“I ran into Miss Marquez when I got here,” Jonathan begins. “She filled me in on the problem.”

Patrick can’t help the small laugh that bubbles up at the way Jonny phrases it. “Which problem? My inability to track time, me always coming late to everything, or me forgetting every charity gig I have to do?”

“No,” Jonny says, looking slightly puzzled. “I meant your extremely complicated and overwhelming schedule outside of your training and games.”

“Oh,” Patrick falters, taken aback slightly. He expected Jonny to at least be slightly condescending, if not outright scoffing at Patrick’s horrendous time management. But Jonny looks neutral, the skin around his eyes smooth. “I mean, yeah, it can get hectic sometimes, not gonna lie.”

Jonny hums, nodding. “It’s not surprising that you need some help to figure it out. While your teammates have mostly the same schedule when it comes to hockey, none of them have the amount of PR gigs that you have to do.”

“Comes with being the face of the franchise,” Patrick says, shrugging as he sends Jonny the best version of his TV-smile. Some tension releases in his chest when Jonny smiles back. “That’s what they tell me at least, when they powder me up with makeup before an interview.”

Jonny nods again, looking down at some notes that are scribbled down into his notebook. Patrick’s eyes stray to the page and he catches the words _lacks planning skills_ _ _ and  _ needs structure outside of hockey  _ before he drags his eyes back up. He doesn’t know if he should be offended or impressed that Jonny’s already picked up on those things over their short phone call yesterday.

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful, by the way,” Patrick adds. “I’m honored they’ve put their trust in me and want to put me front and center with everything. And I like doing the PR stuff. Well, the charity stuff, mostly. And anything that’s got kids involved, those gigs are always fun. So I don’t want anyone to look at ways to cut down my schedule, or tell me I should just focus on hockey. I want to do it all, and I think I can. I just gotta have this shit planned.”

“Well, that’s something I’m good at,” Jonny says, jutting his chin at the brand new planner on the table. “Getting this shit planned.”

“You’d be willing to do it?” Patrick asks. “Just like that?”

Jonny looks at him for a quiet beat. “I’ve considered it for a while yesterday, talked to Melissa, too. It’s more of a question of whether you want to do it. I’m gonna get involved in your life, in basically every aspect of it. I’ve had clients who got on edge about it.”

“I got nothing to hide,” Patrick declares, splaying his hands palm up on the table. Sure, he’s got a few things he isn’t proud of, like not watering his houseplants enough, or how he keeps forgetting the name of the new doorman so he just calls him dude. There’s also a pile of mail gathering on the side table next to his door that he’s too lazy to go through, as well as the thousands of unread emails in his inbox. Still, there aren’t any crazy sex toys hidden underneath his bed or literal skeletons in his closet, so he figures he’ll be fine with having Jonny snoop around.

“It’s not about having something to hide.” Jonny shakes his head, a smile playing around his lips. “If you hire me as your PA, I’m basically becoming your shadow during most parts of the day. On top of that I’ll also tell you what to do. And you are going to have to listen to me, too, and do as I say.”

Patrick swallows and gives a one-shouldered shrug. It does sound a little intimidating, but he tries to play it off. “It’s cool. I got Sharpy breathing down my neck all the time, too - still haven’t choked him out.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jonny deadpans.  _ The snark is a good look on him, _ Patrick thinks, eyeing the the sarcastic pull around Jonny’s mouth.

He feels a smile crack on his own lips and he turns his hand flat on the table. “Look, it’ll be fine. I’m not saying I’ll never get annoyed and act like an asshole, but I sure as hell know you’re gonna get annoyed with me within a week.”

To Jonny’s credit, he doesn’t even pretend to refute that statement. Patrick already likes him.

\--

Patrick’s got a game that Friday and ends up giving the assist on Brandon’s overtime winner. They go out that evening, visiting a few bars that they often frequent. He drinks a few beers, shoots the shit with Seabs and Duncs. He cuts his evening short around one a.m. The hit he took in the third had rattled him pretty roughly and he’s not shaken it off yet. He spends his Uber ride back to his apartment trying not to fall asleep, and downs two paracetamols before going to bed.

On Saturday morning, he uses the complimentary glass of water with his black coffee to swallow another painkiller. He’s sitting in the far corner by the window in the Cafe Integral, waiting for Jonny to show up. Last week, Jonny signed all the contracts that the Blackhawks had slid in front of him. They’ve spent at least an hour every day on the phone since then, discussing Patrick’s schedule and catching up with every feature of Patrick’s day-to-day. He doesn’t think he’s ever talked so much about himself in his life. They’re meeting today to discuss what Monday is going to look like, when Jonny starts his first day as Patrick’s PA. 

He’s looking around the cafe, eyeing the pastries on the glass cake stands. There are a few college kids standing behind the counter, helping the people coming in for a cup of coffee to go. The bell above the door jingles and he looks up. Jonny’s holding the door open for a couple that enters after him. Patrick watches him take off his scarf and coat, pushing his scarf into the sleeve. He’s not wearing a suit today. Instead, he’s wearing a soft-looking sweater, the collar of his dress shirt peeking out over the edge. Patrick shifts in his seat, tugging down the sleeve of his own black hoodie. 

“Morning, Pat,” Jonny says, suddenly standing by the table. He pulls back the chair across from Patrick, the legs making a scraping sound on the wooden floor. The messenger bag is put on the floor before he straightens. “Took me a while to spot you sitting here.”

Jonny looks fresh. There’s a rosy tint to his cheeks from the chill outside, and Patrick picks up a hint of his cologne. Just like on Monday, Jonny is poised and exudes a kind of confidence that makes Patrick feel a little out of depth. 

He moves a little in his chair, taking a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, I always try to sit near the back, try to prevent being recognized. Forgot a pen today.”

Jonny grins. “Too bad. Wanted to ask you to sign a napkin for my brother.”

“You got a brother?” 

“Yeah, just one. His name’s David,” Jonny says, trailing off when the waiter nears their table. “Hi, could I get a pressed kale smoothie, please?” 

When he turns back to face Patrick, he must catch the tail end of the eyeroll. “What?” he asks, a challenging look on his face. It’s not serious, though, Patrick can catch the playfulness in it. 

“Nothing,” he answers, exaggerating the schooling of his features. He swirls around the black coffee in his cup, before swallowing the last of it. “So, Monday.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, settling back into his assured demeanor, “Monday. I’ve got your planner with me.” 

Patrick feels his eyes grow large when Jonny takes the planner out of his bag. “Oh my God, what have you done to it?”

“What do you mean?” Jonny asks, a confused furrow above his brow.

Patrick points at the planner which has grown three times in volume since they last saw each other, and has at least twenty different colored tabs poking out of the side, with two pens strapped to the spine. If Jonny seems intense, the planner simply affirms it as a fact. "That's what I mean."

“Oh, yeah, I filled it in with all your training sessions, doctors appointments, games, interviews, PR, charity, other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” Patrick asks, weakly.

Jonny nods, flicking through the planner. “Family birthdays, days off, your work-out schedule, your Skype sessions with your sisters, your meal plan for game days, training days and off days, when plastic and paper garbage gets picked up, the Cubs’ game schedu--”

“Okay, stop!” 

Jonny stops talking, and looks up. “What?”

“Isn’t that,” Patrick gestures at the planner, a little afraid of it, “a bit much? I mean, my Skype sessions with my sisters? Does that really need to be in there?”

“You told me on the phone two days ago that Erica got mad at you for missing it. It was about her first date with that guy she met on campus two weeks ago,” Jonny says, completely serious as he shows Patrick the slots in the planner that are dedicated to his sisters.

“How do I not even know your brother’s name and you know who my sister is going out with?” 

Jonny blinks. “Because it’s my job.”

“It’s your job to know who my sister is going out with?” 

“No, it’s my job to make sure that  _ you _ know who your sister is going out with. And that you spend at least twenty-five minutes discussing it with her next Thursday, at noon.”

Patrick leans back in his chair, feeling overwhelmed. Jonny goes back to rifling through the planner, the bright colors of the tabs and the stickers and the markings flashing by. He stops, pushing a bookmark on the metal rings of the planner. Patrick reads the letters upside down and breathes out. 

“Monday,” he repeats another time, briefly bending his head sideways to hear the joint in his neck pop. “Hit me.” 

Jonny clears his throat, before beginning. “You’ve got practice at nine. At twelve, they want you in the media room doing the Emoji Game, which will take about thirty minutes, tops. After that, you’ll head home for your afternoon nap. In the evening, you’ll have a call with the Trib about how the season’s going so far. Before going to sleep, your mom will likely call, too, after she and Don get back from the theatre. They’re going to  _ Cats _ , by the way.”

“How do you even know all this?” Patrick insists, leaning forward to take a closer look at the planner. The colors, words, pictures, and tables stare silently back at him. It makes his eyes hurt. 

“Secret of the business,” Jonny says, closing the planner. 

Patrick gives him a dark look, narrowing his eyes at him. Jonny isn’t fazed, though, sipping his kale smoothie from his metal straw with an expression on his face that tells him that Jonny’s determination can’t be daunted. 

“And you’re gonna be there the whole time, just tagging along?” Patrick asks. It wouldn't be his idea of a good time. Then again, phone notifications definitely aren’t cutting it when it comes to his scheduling issues. He needs Jonny, crazy planner and everything. 

Jonny noisily slurps up the last of his smoothie before putting the cup down. “No, I’ll be there in the morning at practice and for the Blackhawks TV bit. After lunch, while you’re taking your nap, I’ll go get groceries and prepare your meals for the coming few days. We’ll prepare for the Trib call over dinner.”

“You know, I should’ve gotten you sooner,” Patrick says, pointing his coffee spoon at Jonny.

Jonny huffs out a little laugh, his fingers moving over the leather of the planner. “You didn’t  _ get _ me. You hired me. And you’ll be the first one to regret it, trust me.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows. “I'll take that bet.” He sticks his hand in the pocket of his hoodie, taking out the key. “Here’s the spare to my apartment.”

“Thanks.” Jonny takes the key from him and spends a few seconds trying to get it on his keyring. It makes Patrick look at his fingers again for a beat too long and he forces himself to look away.

He takes a look at his key on Jonny’s keyring, dangling next to the keychain that is shaped like a strawberry. “You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever given a key to my apartment to. I kinda expected more romance, y’know, the fireworks of commitment.”

Jonny snorts, putting his keys back into his pocket. “I’m sorry for not giving you the waterworks.”

“You could at least try,” Patrick mutters. He cracks a smile at Jonny’s unimpressed face. “Aw, don’t worry. I'll have you crying by the end of this week.”

“I take it back, I’m the first one to regret it.”

“Too late, you signed the papers and took my key,” Patrick smirks. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“So it seems,” Jonny says.


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the response on the first chapter was so overwhelming ♡ thank you!

Patrick wakes up slowly on Monday morning. He turns over a few times, dozing off again before he’s well and truly awake. He’s scrolling through Twitter, a sleepy chuckle escaping his lips as he sees a funny tweet about Sharpy’s fight from last night’s game. The covers drag onto the ground when he gets out of bed, scratching his bare stomach as he retweets the video. He takes his time eating his breakfast in his underwear, watching a bit of TV as he scrolls through his phone. He carries his empty plate into the kitchen half an hour later, his bare feet padding on the hardwood floor. The power outlet gives a spark when he pushes the plug of the blender in. Just as he’s bending down to grab the tin with oats, the front door to his apartment opens. He startles, the tin slipping out of his hands and clattering loudly on the floor. Oats fall from the opening, spilling across the wood. 

Jonny whirls into the kitchen, damp hair sticking to the nape of his neck. He looks around, taking in the sight of Patrick in his briefs with the empty tin in his hands. “You okay? What happened?”

Patrick straightens and pushes a hand in his hair, getting it out of his face. “Jesus, man, I thought I was getting robbed. No one’s ever opened that door from the outside while I’m home.” The frantic beat of his heart slows down a little as he sets the empty tin back on the kitchen counter.

“Right, of course,” Jonny says, looking around, “Let’s get this cleaned up before we go.” He grabs the dustpan and brush from one of the bottom shelves of the cabinet and hands it to Patrick.

Patrick has to take a second before taking the dustpan from Jonny, berating himself as he gets down on his knees for expecting Jonny to clean up his mess. It’s not like Jonny is his slave. Besides, the dark brown pants he’s wearing look way too expensive to be kneeling down on Patrick’s kitchen floor. Patrick clears his throat, sweeping the spilled oats into the dustpan. “I was gonna make a smoothie to go along with my breakfast, but we’re definitely gonna be late now, huh?”

“No, it’s fine,” Jonny says, taking a quick glance at his watch. “You know, I can make the smoothie so you can go get dressed and grab your stuff.”

Patrick gets back up, wincing when his knees pop. “You sure?” he asks, walking over to the trash can and swiping the oats into it. 

“Yeah, sure. You got another bag? Muesli will do, too.” Jonny’s pulling open the doors of the overhead cabinets, eyes sweeping over the mostly empty space. 

“If I’ve got it, it’s somewhere in the pantry. Either behind the expired pasta or in front of the almost-expired rice.” He points towards the door across the from the fridge. 

“Can pasta expire?” Jonny mumbles, mostly to himself rather than to Patrick. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it over one of the barstools by the kitchen island. “You, hurry up.”

Patrick promptly turns on his heel, moving towards his bedroom. He’s busy pulling on his socks when he hears the blender violently whirr. He tugs his shoes on and grabs the scarf hanging over the back of a chair. His bag is in the corner of the room and he pulls it up by the strap, hitching it onto his shoulder.   
“All set,” he announces, walking back into the kitchen where Jonny’s putting the last ingredients into the blender. 

Jonny looks over his shoulder and pointedly looks down to the kitchen island. Patrick picks up the pasta bag, throwing it up in the air and catching it. 

“Oh, twenty-ten. That’s not too bad.” 

Jonny snorts, turning on the blender again. The noise fills up the kitchen and Patrick leans his hip against the counter, watching as Jonny pours the smoothie into a bottle. He’s more than a little impressed by how quickly Jonny untwists the components of the blender, taking it apart and putting them into the dishwasher. Jonny grabs a cap and twists it onto the bottle, handing it to Patrick. “Let’s go.”

“Already going,” Patrick says, walking towards the door and grabbing his coat from the hanger. He lets Jonny go through first, letting the door fall shut behind him. 

In the car, Patrick hums along to a song on the radio, thrumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Jonny’s in the passenger’s seat, typing on Patrick’s phone. He hasn’t looked up from the screen in fifteen minutes, the planner open on his lap. Occasionally, he scribbles a note down in the margins or underlines a sentence. Patrick lets his eyes flick sideways from time to time, watching Jonny’s long fingers curl around a pen or fly across the letters on the screen of his phone. 

“Everything good?” Patrick asks, as he turns onto Madison Avenue. 

Jonny looks up and gives him a nod. “Yeah, just trying to contact as many people as possible to let them know they’ll have to go through me now to get to you.”

“Yeah, you tell ‘em, Jonny,” Patrick pipes up, grinning at his own joke as he waits for the light to turn green. He doesn’t see Jonny’s expression but he feels the exasperation hitting the right side of his face. 

“If you’d rather go back to missing fifteen calls a day, let me know.”

“No,” Patrick says, shaking his head decidedly. He speeds up a little, taking over another car. “No, feel free to guard my phone with your life. My email is finally getting a breather now that there aren’t fifty emails a day going onto the unread pile.”

This time Jonny does look up. “I’ve seen them. There’s a lot of spam in there, too,” Jonny pulls a face, “You know, _ hot young girls in the Chicago area looking for you, _stuff like that.”

“Hey, what can I say,” Patrick grins, drawing up his shoulders. “Everybody wants to get a piece of this.”

Jonny makes a soft grunting sound, his eyes back on the phone. “Apparently.” 

Just as Patrick’s gearing up for a retort about not insulting the boss on the first day, his phone begins to ring. He looks sideways to see Jonny swiping his thumb to the right and lifting it to his ear. “Good morning, Jonathan Toews on behalf of Patrick Kane. How can I help you?”

Patrick swallows the comment, pushing his foot down on the gas a little harder. Now’s definitely not the time to explore why that just made something warm curl in his stomach. And besides, Jonny doesn’t have a spot dedicated to such things in his planner, anyway.

\--

Patrick is waiting for his turn for the drill, jutting the tip of his skate into the ice. A poke in his side makes him look behind him. He meets Sharpy’s eyes and juts his chin up. “What?”

“Saw your assistant heading up to the offices,” Sharpy says, his breath coming out in short bursts as he leans on his stick.   
“Yeah, he’s gonna prepare the Blackhawks TV bit that I have to do after practice. It’s the emoji thing, guessing the movies.”

Sharpy grins, kicking at Patrick’s stick with his skate. “You suck at those. Maybe your tall, handsome assistant will mime you the answers from behind the camera. Do you pay him extra to serve as your brain?”

Patrick frowns, opening his mouth to retort. He’s already at the front of the line, though, so he just skates forward and puts power behind his stride. His slapshot hits the underside of the bar with a loud _ clang _ before falling into the back of the net. As he skates back to the line, he sees Sharpy’s shot hitting the post. 

“Weak,” he call out. He turns around once Sharpy’s standing behind him again. “And I’m not gonna have Jonny give me the answers. I’ll beat you at that dumb game.”

“You tell yourself that, Peekaboo,” Sharpy nods, giving him a smirk. “So how’s it going anyway, with Jonny?”

Patrick twists his lips and thinks. It’s only the first day, so he can’t really tell yet. Still, Jonny’s a lot. It’s not just the monstrosity of a planner that he carries around with him and orders Patrick to follow to every minute detail. It’s also in the fierce glint in his eyes and the determined pull around his mouth. Jonny knows what he’s about and it’s evident in the confident way he carries himself. Hell, Patrick’s got a Stanley Cup under his belt at twenty-four and still manages to feel inadequate around Jonny’s...everything.

He’s not that much of an idiot to say any of that to Sharpy, though. Instead, he just says: “It’s weird, having someone follow me around, telling me what to do. I don’t know what I’m doing the day after tomorrow, but I’m sure Jonny’s got at least two pages on it.”

“It takes a while to get used to, yeah,” Sharpy agrees, tapping the ice with his stick. “It’s gonna be fine. Soon enough it’ll be like he’s not even there.”

Patrick doesn’t think Jonny’s the kind of person that will fade into the background over time. Again, he doesn’t tell Sharpy. “Sure, we’ll see,” he says instead. Coach Q is shouting his name across the ice and he skates his way over, making sure to cover Shawzy’s skates with a thick layer of powder when he brakes. 

\--

Jonny’s sitting on a chair against the wall when Patrick enters the media room. He thought maybe Jonny would feel uncomfortable on his first day, hanging around the rink waiting for Patrick to be done with practice. But Jonny seems perfectly at ease, reading something on his iPad while Patrick’s phone is lodged between his ear and shoulder. 

He lets Jonny finish his call, going around the room to say hi to everyone. Jason’s behind the camera, connecting a few plugs. Amber is talking to Ruth, who’s in charge of the Blackhawks TV bits. 

“Oh, hi Pat,” Amber says, giving him a smile. “How was practice?”

“Can’t complain,” Patrick says, dutifully standing still while Ruth swipes some powder across his forehead and cheeks. “Coming to the game tomorrow night?”

Amber nods. “Bringing a date, too.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows and grins. “Alright, alright, way to go. I’ll try scoring a few, make the night special.”

“Don’t you always,” Amber retorts, giving him a small shove. 

“Hey, watch out,” Patrick laughs as he stumbles, Ruth accidentally swiping the brush across his eye. “You’re disturbing Ruth’s creative process.”

Ruth takes her brush away and gives him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about your face,” she says, her expression breaking out into a grin.

“Ow,” Patrick complains, holding a hand against his heart. “Ice cold, Ruth, ice cold.”

She smiles, her ponytail falling across her shoulder as she turns away. “You know it.”

The sound of drawers opening and closing pulls Patrick’s attention and he sees Amber rummaging through the desk. “Anyone know where they’ve left the clip-on mikes? There should be a whole box of them in the bottom drawer.”

“I think this is them,” comes Jonny’s voice from across the room. He’s pushing the phone back in his pocket and picks up the box from a nearby table. 

Patrick makes his way over. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jonny says, giving him a smile. “You good?”

“Of course, practice was good.” 

Patrick takes a mike out of the box, untangling the wire from the other microphones. He tugs his collar down a little, clipping the mic on. 

“Here, let me,” Jonny offers. He takes out one of the adapters from the box and moves to stand behind Patrick.

Patrick holds the wire over his shoulder and lets Jonny tug the collar of his shirt back, dropping the wire down Patrick’s back. He feels Jonny pull up the hem of his shirt slightly. The tips of Jonny’s fingers are warm on the small of his back as he pulls down the wire. He connects it to the adapter and hands it to Patrick, who puts it in the pocket of his jeans. 

“Thanks,” he says, briefly meeting Jonny’s eyes as he turns around. He flicks the switch on the adapter and tapping the mike. He looks up at Jason, who’s put his headphones on. “All good?”

Jason gives him a thumbs up and the lights go on, illuminating the green screen against the far wall. 

“Okay, we’re all set,” Ruth says, standing next to the camera. “Could you go stand on the white X on the floor, Pat?”

“Yeah, alright,” Patrick says, looking at the jut of Jonny’s jawbone on the monitor before Jonny moves out of frame and goes to sit back down on his chair. 

He makes his way over to the right spot, watching himself on the monitor. His curls are slightly damp from the shower, clinging to the nape of his neck. He sees his nipples poke through the thin fabric of his shirt and mentally groans, already hearing the chirps from his teammates once the video comes out.

Ruth points to the screen that’s aimed at Patrick. “The emojis will be on that screen, we’ll do about six movies.”

“Alright, let’s ace this,” Patrick says, cracking his knuckles and moving his shoulders. He ignores the snort coming from the side of the room. 

In the end, he doesn’t do terribly. He gets Twilight, Star Wars, Mary Poppins, and Up, but misses Ratatouille and the Avengers. Jonny helps him take off the mike, rolling up the wire carefully before putting it down in the box. 

They make their way out of the building a little after one p.m. The wind has picked up, creating a chill in the September air. Most of the parking lot is cleared out already, a few cars scattered across the lot. Patrick pushes his bag into the trunk and passes his keys to Jonny. He takes out the makeup wipe Ruth gave him, wiping the powder from his cheekbones. It makes his skin tingle.

“I’m not sure that chauffeur is in the contract,” Jonny says, rattling Patrick’s keys. He still opens up the door to the driver’s side, getting in. Patrick gives him an unimpressed look when Jonny has to move the seat back three notches and adjust the rearview mirror. 

The drive back to Patrick’s apartment is quiet, the voice of the news reporter coming softly from the speakers. Patrick wipes off the last powder from his neck and balls up the makeup wipe, pushing it into the small garbage container. 

Back at the apartment, Patrick offers to make them both lunch. Jonny’s brought his own, though, taking out two Tupperware boxes from his bag. He’s already found out about Jonny’s obsession for healthy food, and he’s got a gluten allergy to boot, so it’s pretty clear pretty fast that he can’t count on Jonny for allowing him a cheat day. Near the end of the meal, he leans over to steal a bite from Jonny’s food, their knees briefly knocking together. The food’s not that terrible, the spices are actually kind of nice, but he makes sure to turn up his nose when he notices Jonny looking. Even though it earns him an eye roll, he still notices the small smile tugging at the corners of Jonny’s lips.

After lunch, he puts away his dirty dishes and Jonny’s Tupperware in the dishwasher. He helps Jonny compile a shopping list, moving between his bathroom and the guest bathroom to note the stuff he’s run out of. 

He’s already dressed down to his briefs when he hears the front door fall shut, signifying Jonny’s departure to the store. His sheets are soft and comfy, and he releases a content sigh as he settles into his bed. After texting his sisters on his new - blissfully empty and quiet - phone about the TV show they’re all watching, he puts away his phone and closes his eyes.

\--

It’s almost five p.m. when he wakes up again. The light coming in from between the curtains has gone greyish, and he can hear the soft patter of rain against the windows. He stretches and tugs the sheets straight once he’s out of bed, rearranging the quilt his mother knit for him during her first weekend here. He pulls on a pair of dark grey sweats and a blue hoodie, the fabric soft against his bare skin.

The lights are on in the kitchen and Patrick sees Jonny standing by the stove, chopping a zucchini into cubes. He’s wearing a black apron and he’s got his cuffs unbuttoned and folded up. One of the doors of the overhead pantry is open and Patrick lets his eyes skim across all the products.

“You stacked up good,” he says, smiling when he sees Jonny’s shoulders hitch in surprise. _Payback’s a bitch._  
“It only looks stacked because it was practically empty before.” Jonny lifts up the cutting board and slides the cubes into the wok on the stove. 

Patrick walks over and inspects the contents, humming appreciatively. He leans back and moves out of Jonny’s way. The edge of the counter digs into his lower back as he leans against it and he crosses his arms. 

“This is kinda weird, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Jonny asks, not looking up from where he’s looking at Patrick’s meal plan, which he put together with some help from the Blackhawks’ nutritionists. 

Patrick gestures into the empty space between them, his eyes on Jonny’s back. His broad shoulders gently curve down into a narrow waist. Patrick rubs at the side of his face, tracking the movement of the muscles underneath the shirt. “You know, this. You doing my grocery shopping and cooking for me. Shouldn’t I get a cook for this stuff? I feel like it’s not a part of your job description, exactly.”

Jonny looks up, an expression on his face that Patrick can’t quite read. “I like taking care of your food. I mean,” Jonny breathes out through his nose. “I’ve always liked cooking and nutrition, and I got a certificate for it last year. You do know you’re paying me for this as well, right? Very generously, too, might I add.”

“Yeah, of course, but I don’t want you to feel like my servant or anything. Because what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Just sit around while you do all the work? Rest my feet on the coffee table while you hand-feed me homemade vegetable chips during Mindhunter?”

This time, Jonny does laugh, his nose scrunching up a little. “God, no. Don’t think of it like that. Cooking’s a hobby I’ve had for a while. I like doing it. Just humor me on that, Pat.”

It’s odd to hear Jonny use his nickname like that, since he only hears it from his mom and his sisters nowadays. He likes it, though. It sounds nice. Like Jonny’s comfortable around him, which is exactly what’s been his underlying worry. 

“Okay, sure. Do your thing. But it still feels kinda weird,” Patrick says, pushing his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. “And I’m not just gonna sit by and do nothing, so next time you just put me to work.”

“You were sleeping. I’m not gonna wake you up and drag you out of bed to wash and boil some rice,” Jonny says, a stubborn tone in his voice. 

“When I’m not sleeping,” Patrick counters. “You’ll let me do shit, then? And I got a housekeeper, you probably know more about her than me, so God help me if I catch you vacuuming my apartment or doing my laundry.”

Jonny holds up his hands in defeat, giving Patrick an appeasing smile. “Alright. You can peel the tomatoes, if you want.”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I do want,” Patrick states, moving to stand next to Jonny. He takes the knife and chopping board Jonny hands him. He doesn’t dare to ask whether Jonny’s just bought them or if they’ve been in his kitchen for the past two years. 

After they’ve prepared dinner, during which Jonny didn’t let him do much - other than chopping a few vegetables - for the safety of the meal, they make their way to the living room. Patrick sinks down into the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table. 

“You know,” he garbles around a mouthful of food, “I almost thought you were gonna make us sit at the dinner table and have a civilized conversation.”

Jonny sits down on the couch as well, digging his fork into his food. “Of course not, I know that’s too much to ask of you.”

“I can eat at a table just fine,” Patrick argues, lightly kicking his socked foot against Jonny’s ankle. 

He empties his plate quickly, realizing this is the best food he’s had in a while. When he says so out loud Jonny’s face goes all smug, and he vows to never do so again.

“Right,” Jonny says, a few minutes later. He scrapes the sides of his own plate with his fork. He puts the last bits in his mouth and chews, his jaw working as he reaches for the planner next to him. “The Trib is gonna call around seven, and they always call early. Let’s go over some of the stuff they’re gonna ask.”

“How do you even know what they’re gonna ask me?” Patrick questions, putting his empty plate on top of Jonny’s and leaning back into the pillows of the couch. 

“A friend of mine works there, I called him this morning to ask around a bit,” Jonny says, flipping through the binder and taking out a green sticky note. “Let’s see. They’re going to ask about the chances of the Blackhawks winning the Stanley Cup this season.”

“Possible, we’ve got a good team,” Patrick retorts. 

Jonny nods. “Good, you can say that. Stick to the media spiel but feel free to give ‘em something more. It’s a Chicago newspaper and they’re doing a larger piece, so they’re likely gonna want more than the standardized answers.”

Patrick hums, moving to sit sideways on the couch to face Jonny, his right foot tucked underneath his left thigh. “Okay, how about this. We’ve got a chance at winning the Cup this year. However, as we saw last season, things can go sideways real quick when the injuries start to pile up. The Pens and the Flyers are looking solid this season, too, only dropping three points so far. It’s too early to say where we’re gonna end up, but we’re giving it our all to bring another Cup to Chicago.”

“Better,” Jonny says, shooting Patrick a smile before looking down at his notes again. “There’s more stuff about the team and the upcoming Circus Trip. You can put something in there about how it’s tough to be on the road for such a long time, but that you’re excited. Maybe add in a few exclusives, like details about rooming with Saad, the shows you watch on the plane, the game you’re most excited for.”

“Yeah, sure, I can do that. What else?”

“They’re gonna do this box on the side of the page with some stuff about you specifically. They’ll ask about your family, your dad’s role in your career, how you’ve spent the off season.”

“Great,” Patrick mutters, rubbing at the skin between his brows. He’s fine with talking about his sisters and the off season, but his dad’s always a tough subject for him. He loves his dad, he does, but they’ve had a tough summer. He ended up leaving Buffalo a week early, sick of the arguments. 

“Something wrong with that? You can always tell them a few subjects are off limits,” Jonny says, already scribbling on the sticky note. 

“No, it’s fine, it’s just,” Patrick sighs, shrugging. “Never mind. I’ll answer whatever you want me to.”

Jonny frowns. “It’s not about what I want you to say. You can say whatever you want.”

“Me venting on my relationship with my dad at the moment is not something you wanna have splashed all over the front page.”

“No,” Jonny agrees, “But you can still be yourself. Tell them it’s difficult to maintain relationships with friends and family due to the busy schedule. It’s not lying, it’s just not telling them the whole truth.”

Patrick puts one of the strings of his hoodie in his mouth and chews. “Yeah, okay.”

They go over some more topics that will probably get asked, when the phone rings. Jonny picks up and Patrick watches him answer the call, talking briefly to the other person on the line about the length of the interview and the questions. 

After a minute or so, Jonny hands the phone to Patrick. 

“Hello, this is Patrick Kane,” he says.

Jonny moves on the couch, leaning forward to grab their dishes to take them to the kitchen. Patrick stops him, though, curling his fingers around Jonny’s wrist. Jonny meets his gaze and Patrick moves his eyes to the spot next to him, indicating for Jonny to sit back down.

Jonny puts the plates back on the coffee table and sits down again. Patrick takes the phone away from his ear and puts it on speaker, the voice of the person on the other end spreading loud and clear in the living room. 

While Patrick answers the questions, Jonny relaxes into the couch and listens along. Every once in a while, he’ll write a suggestion or a note down on a piece of paper and show it to Patrick. It helps with the interview, the conversation flowing smoothly and naturally. 

The sun has gone down completely over the past thirty minutes that he’s been talking to the journalist. The lights from the other buildings are flickering in the dark. It’s stopped raining but there are clouds in the sky, a light fog limiting the view from the windows. Jonny gets up to close the curtains, the lamps in the corners glowing their yellow light.

When the journalist starts thanking Patrick for his time, Patrick glances over to Jonny by the windows. He’s on his tiptoes, tugging at the top of a curtain that’s stuck. Patrick shifts his jaw a little and looks down. He’s smiling as he says goodnight to the journalist.


	3. three

October passes in a blur of games, practices and interviews. Patrick can feel the grind of the season beginning to settle in his bones. The rhythm of his daily routines is fully entrenched already, now that he’s got Jonny to keep him to the schedule. He shows up on time, eats the right meals, and has an app which tracks his sleeping. He’s feeling the best he’s ever felt at this point in a season, racking up points almost every game. They’re on a winning streak of seven games, gearing up for the Circus Trip.

Jonny’s presence has become a constant over the past weeks, with them being in close contact even when Patrick’s gone for a day or two on away games. Even though the schedule that Jonny has created is strict and filled-up, he feels relaxed. Less chaotic, less pent-up energy at odd times of the day, less mood swings. 

They spend most hours of the day together or within a short distance of one another. Jonny usually shows up around nine in the morning, sucking a green smoothie through a metal straw while he waits for Patrick to shrug on his coat. They head to the Ice House in Jonny’s car, because Jonny had started bitching about Patrick’s about one week into the job. On the way, they listen to music together, Patrick singing the wrong words on purpose because it makes Jonny’s face go all pinched. He never realized that his life in Chicago was quite lonely, outside of hockey, until Jonny came along.

Now, he’s got someone to eat dinner with. Someone who listens to him gripe about Sharpy’s pranks, and who’s also been the victim of some of Sharpy’s pranks himself to contribute to the complaints. They go through Patrick’s BluRay collection slowly but steadily, ripping off the plastic covers and popping them into the BluRay player. Jonny’s fallen asleep on more than one occasion, which either results in him heading home or conking out in Patrick’s guest bedroom. Patrick always wakes up a little earlier, a little brighter, whenever Jonny stays over. 

Even though Jonny already has got an encyclopaedia’s worth of information on Patrick and his life, Patrick is slowly catching up on Jonny’s. He knows not to ask Jonny anything in the mornings that he sleeps over, silently sliding a steaming cup of coffee across the kitchen counter first. Jonny’s green smoothies consist of one cup of almond milk, a cup of kale, a banana, and some pineapple juice. He never seems to run out of the stuff in his fridge, either. Jonny’s got a mean, competitive streak that comes out at odd times, from playing Mario Kart to who’s the first to spot a parking spot close to the entrance to the mall. And while Jonny’s mostly professional, he also laughs along with Amber and Ruth at Patrick’s awkward everything during the photo shoots he has to do in the Blackhawks clothing line. He’s also added separate tabs for when the Hawks have to play the Jets, announcing before Patrick leaves that he hopes Patrick flunks his shots. On those days, he always messes up Jonny’s smoothie on purpose, cackling when he sees Jonny’s face go sour.

They’ve had some fights - which Jonny insists on calling ‘differences of opinion’ - but it’s mostly been good. Very good, even.

\--

November comes with harsh winds and temperatures in the the forties. Patrick’s leaving for the Circus Trip on Tuesday. He has about ten movies on his tablet and two books his sisters sent him, and he’s feeling good. The first Circus Trip he went on was rough on him, the long stretch on the road had made his fading homesickness flare back up. He still feels the weight of it. It’s a tough period away from home, but he’s excited, too. 

Jonny, however, is stressed. He’s been hovering around Patrick all morning, reminding him of the things he has to pack and that he’s got two phone calls planned with two separate magazines. He prints out Patrick’s schedule and is scribbling on it while Patrick moves around his apartment, packing his stuff.

When Jonny begins about the meal plan, Patrick finally snaps. “Stop mother henning me already!”

Jonny glares, the corners of his mouth turning down. “I’m not, I just don’t want you to mess up all the work we’ve been doing so far.”

“I won’t, okay?” Patrick protests, taking the papers from Jonny’s hands and stuffing them away. He gives Jonny a defiant look when Jonny frowns at the way Patrick’s crumpled the papers into his suitcase. “You’re gonna call me every day anyway about not forgetting any of this stuff. I’ll be fine.”

Jonny crosses his arms across his chest. He’s wearing the Blackhawks hoodie that Patrick had brought home from a few weeks ago, having had to model it for the webshop. One of the drawstrings is fraying a little because Jonny often puts it in between his teeth while he’s behind his laptop. While it’d been loose on Patrick, the fabric is stretched tight across Jonny’s biceps. His clenched jaw is covered in a light stubble, as he hasn’t bothered to shave yet. He doesn’t look pleased.

Something inside Patrick’s chest clenches at the sight and he sighs, relenting. “I promise, okay? I’ll hound whoever’s responsible for nutrition on this trip with the meal plan.”

Jonny doesn’t say anything but something in his jaw stops twitching and he helps Patrick zip up his overflowing suitcase. They walk out of the bedroom and grab their coats, Jonny skimming the list in the planner one last time to make sure Patrick’s got everything.

They’re both quiet in the car, Jonny driving down Grand Avenue. Patrick’s looking at the skyscrapers that flash by quickly. He silently counts the days, twelve in total. Twelve days without Jonny next to him, jammering about being late or Patrick’s sleeping habits. 

“You’re gonna miss me, aren’t you?” he pipes up, trying to lift the somehow low energy in the car. It’s quiet for a beat and Patrick looks over at Jonny.

“Not at all,” Jonny eventually replies, Canadian accent coming out strong. His eyes are on the road but the corner of his mouth lifts into a small smile. “Peace and quiet--about time.”

Patrick lets out a soft snort, fixing his gaze back on the outside world passing by. 

\--

It’s late by the time they land in Edmonton. The drive from the airport to the hotel goes relatively quickly, and he listens to music while dozing off a little. They have dinner at the hotel, and he tries to stick closely to his meal plan. Jonny’s not here to see it, though, so he doesn’t say no when Sharpy gets up to get them both dessert. 

He’s rooming with Brandon, who’s a pretty good roommate to have on the road. He snores sometimes, but one shove onto his side usually fixes that right away. Patrick lets himself drop on the bed by the window, Brandon loitering around in the bathroom. The bed is comfy and he sinks into it, taking out his phone to send a quick message to his sisters and to Jonny that he’s arrived at the hotel. He gets some good luck wishes back from his sisters, and Jonny replies with:  **Good, get some sleep. Talk to you tmrw. **

Patrick takes a quick glance at the time and snorts. It’s just past eight. He gets up from the bed, ignoring his body’s protests. 

“Hey, Saader,” he says, thumping his fist on the bathroom door. “I’m off to Sharpy’s for a bit.”

He hears Brandon yell something back, but doesn’t bother to make out what he said. His suitcase is open on the floor and he takes out one of the books, tucking it under his arm as he leaves the hotel room. He doesn’t really plan on reading it, but if Sharpy’s tired and not in a talking mood, at least he’s got something to entertain himself with. 

The hallway is brightly lit but quiet. He leans against the wall next to the door to Sharpy’s room, bumping his elbow against the wood. There’s some shuffling from inside the room before the door opens. Sharpy’s hair is wet and he’s dragging a towel through the dark strands. 

“Hey, Peeks,” he says, turning back around and leaving the door open for Patrick. “What’s up?”

“Not much since the thirty minutes that I last saw you.” Patrick flops down on Sharpy’s bed. He’d kill to have a single room, but he settles for always making good use of Sharpy’s. He turns the TV on and drops his book next to him on the covers. 

When Sharpy comes back out of the bathroom, he takes a look at Patrick and grins. “Is it sleepover time again?”

Patrick lets out an unimpressed hum. “Don’t front, you’d have come over to mine and Saader’s room if I wasn’t here first. You get all lonely captain up in here if there’s no one around.”

“I don’t go lonely captain,” Sharpy retorts, sitting down with his back against the headboard, stretching his legs out in front of him. He pulls out his phone and shows Patrick some pictures of Maddie. They end up calling Abby with the phone on speaker, talking for almost half an hour about the trip and Maddie’s second week at preschool. 

After the call, they watch ESPN for a while and Patrick reads a few pages from his book. His phone buzzes somewhere and he searches around with his hand, sliding across the covers. It’s lodged between the pillow and the wall, and he takes it out, checking the screen. 

“Is that Jonny?” Sharpy asks, eyes on the TV.

Patrick reads the message from his mom, sending back a quick reply before pocketing his phone again. “No, it’s my mom. Jonny ordered me about an hour ago to go to sleep.”

That makes Sharpy laugh, and he shakes his head at the TV. “That guy.”

“He’s nice,” Patrick counters, feeling oddly protective.

“Yeah, he is,” Sharpy nods, playing with the remote in his hands. “Still, it’s funny to see you and him together all the time, like you come in a set. I didn’t even think he’d last as your assistant, at first.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He hopes that Sharpy doesn’t notice the slightly hostile tone that creeps into his voice.

Sharpy shrugs. “I’m just saying, Jonny’s pretty intense about stuff that you couldn’t care less about - the amount of fibres in your breakfast, no phone time before you go to sleep, all that. Thought you’d be fighting him all the time on those things.”

“I mean, I do,” Patrick concedes, sliding his index finger along the spine of his book as he thinks about it for a second. “But Jonny’s a cool guy. He’s uptight but we still have fun.”

“Must be weird, though, going off on the Trip. Without him, I mean.”

“A little, I guess. But I wasn’t gonna bring my assistant to sit around in hotels and airplanes for almost two weeks, while I’m either sleeping, eating, or playing games,” Patrick reasons. He would have liked to have Jonny here with him, just to have his presence around. But that’s not what Jonny’s job entails, and Patrick’s not going to go down the rabbit hole that makes him want those things. 

Sharpy’s changing the channel over to some hockey highlights and Patrick perks up a little. They don’t talk about Jonny anymore for the rest of the evening, but when Patrick leaves to go back to his own room, Sharpy does squeeze his shoulder a little firmer than usual.

\--

They’re nearing the end of the Circus Trip when Patrick gets back to the hotel on Saturday night. They lost in overtime against the Blues, after Patrick’s goal had tied the game late in the third. He doesn’t feel too bad about the loss, knows that they’ve got another point in what is shaping up to be a very successful Trip. They have an early flight out tomorrow, facing the Flames two times in three days before heading back to Chicago.

He’s standing underneath the shower at the hotel, letting the hot stream cascade over his head and down his body. His curls are plastered down over his forehead and he lifts his hand to push them back up. The movement makes him wince, a soft noise leaving his lips. His side has been smarting from a hit he took in the third period. Bollig had dropped the gloves against the guy that did it but Patrick hadn’t seen the fight, the physicians hovering over him during it. He’d insisted to them that he was fine, that they leave him be. He’s kind of regretting it now. There’s a large, nasty bruise on his ribs, and he pokes a few fingers at the purple skin. He grimaces at the light contact, cupping his palm over the bruise. He remembers Jonny throwing a tube of remedy gel at him while he was packing his bags, and makes a mental note to lather on a thick layer of the stuff before he goes to bed. 

The mirror is fogged up when he gets out of the shower, a towel slung low on his hips. He wipes a hand across the glass, taking in the dark circles beneath his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping great, too many different mattresses in too little time. Jonny’s also got access to the account on the app that tracks his sleeping, and they’d discussed it over the phone last night. He’d hung up when Jonny began talking about a playlist with harp music to help him sleep. He had called back right away, laughing at Jonny’s indignant tone when he picked up again. 

He gets back out into the room, which is blessedly empty. Brandon had gone out with a few guys, grabbing a quick beer. The pain in his side flares up when he pulls on a pair of sweats, and he grimaces as he tugs a worn, soft shirt over his head. 

It’s almost eleven p.m. and Jonny still hasn’t called, which is odd. He usually calls sooner, knowing the time it takes for Patrick to get back to the hotel. Patrick lets himself sink against the pillows, rucking up the comforter and pulling it over his legs. He takes out his phone and dials Jonny’s number, lifting in to his ear.

Jonny picks up after a few beats. His voice is a bit far away as he says: “Oh, hey. Patrick.” 

“Hey,” Patrick responds, hearing voices and music in the background. “I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”

“No, no, hold on. I’ll go somewhere more quiet.”

Patrick hears Jonny talk to someone, sounding muffled and far away. He wonders where he is. They don’t really discuss what Jonny does during the evenings that he’s not at Patrick’s place. He feels a bit guilty, unintentionally having kept Jonny at such a distance that he doesn’t know what Jonny likes to get up to during an evening off. The voices and the music eventually fade more to the background. 

“Hi, still there?” comes Jonny’s voice again. Without the rush of noise, the deep tone of his voice is smooth and clear.

“Yeah, everything good?” 

“Everything's fine. How did the game go?”

Patrick frowns. Jonny usually begins their phone calls with a remark on the game, sometimes praising Patrick for something, but usually giving him pointers on his play. He’s right, too, most of the time, so Patrick can’t really get upset about it.

“You, uh, didn’t see it?” he asks, pressing the phone closer to his ear and hugging his midriff with his other arm.

“I didn’t,” Jonny admits.” I’ve been out all evening. Didn’t really have the chance to check my phone.”

_ That’s weird,  _ Patrick thinks. Given the nature of his job, and Jonny just being who he is, Jonny’s phone is usually glued to his hand. He looks at it all the time. Unless that’s just for his job, when Patrick needs to reach him at all times of the day. Maybe now that he’s gone, Jonny’s doesn’t care to look at his phone much. It makes something burn uncomfortably in his stomach. 

He realizes he’s been silent for a bit, so he tries to joke: “What, you out on a date or something?” 

It’s quiet for a few seconds, but then Jonny says: “Yeah, actually. I am.”

Patrick slumps a little, fingers curling into the fabric of the comforter. “Oh, uh,” he swallows. “That’s cool. What’s her name?”

Jonny lets out a hum. “His name’s Chris.”

“Oh, you--” Patrick begins, not really knowing what to say. His heart is beating loudly in his chest, and he digs his nails further into his comforter. “That’s nice.”

“It is.” Jonny says, his voice sounding level and a little distant. 

“So, uh, how did you two meet?” Patrick asks, worrying his lower lip in between his teeth.

“He’s a childhood friend, we’ve been dating for a while now.” Jonny sounds neutral, and Patrick can’t detect an emotion in the tone of his voice.

He bites down on his lip, wincing a little at the sting. “Oh.”

“Is that a problem?” Jonny asks, a clipped tone to his voice. 

It makes Patrick jump. “No, not at all!” he hurries to say, even if the clenched up ball in his throat clearly  _ does _ have a problem with it. “It’s just, I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well,” Jonny says, sounding dismissive. “It didn’t come up.”

“But still--” Patrick begins to say, but Jonny cuts him off. 

“Hey, Pat, I gotta go. We’re at this theatre downtown and the show’s gonna start up again. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Of course,” Patrick says, swallowing hard and nodding. “Have fun, Jon.”

Jonny mutters a quick, “Thanks,” before he hangs up, the dial tone ringing in Patrick’s ear.

Patrick puts the phone down next to him on the bed, ducking further underneath the covers. There’s something churning and spinning in his chest. He lets himself breathe slowly a few times, tugging up the covers to his chin.

So. Jonny’s got a boyfriend. He bites at a loose piece of skin on his lip, wondering how he didn’t notice. They’ve been close for weeks now, never spending more than a day or two apart. The only reason it didn’t come up was because Jonny didn’t  _ let _ him notice anything. No fond smiles aimed down at a text, no calls in the evening, no picture of him and his boyfriend as the background on his phone. 

He gets up out of bed in a quick move, clenching his jaw at the burning pain in his side. The remedy gel is tucked in one of the pockets in his suitcase and he takes it out. His shirt is quickly shrugged off, falling to the carpeted floor. The gel is cold, tingling in his palm as he squeezes out a dollop. He grits his teeth and brings his hand up to his side, rubbing the gel across the darkened skin. The tingling increases, making the skin feel warm. He goes into the bathroom to wash his hands and walks around the room for a bit, letting the gel absorb into his skin. It already feels better when he gets into bed again, a few minutes later. 

Brandon comes back around eleven p.m., trying to be quiet. Patrick’s still awake, turned towards the ugly wallpaper and tracing a flower with his pinky. His thoughts keep straying back to Jonny. He wonders what he’s doing right now. Maybe the show hasn’t ended yet, and he’s still in his seat, holding hands with a tall, attractive man. Or maybe they’re at a bar, having one last drink before they both head to Jonny’s place, extending the night. They could be kissing on the couch right now, in the apartment that Patrick has never been to. He turns on his back, pulling his hand back under the covers. He rests his fingers above the waistband of his boxers, the tips cold against his heated skin. 

He falls asleep somewhere around one a.m., thinking about Jonny smiling softly in the dim light of the night.

\--

He doesn’t end up getting more points in the last two games of the Circus Trip. His ribs are screaming at him during the first game against the Flames, and he has to let the second and third period pass by. One of the physicians checks him, after, and tells him his ribs are bruised. He sits out the last game, pumping a fist in the air when Bur manages to score the only goal of the game.

They’re all glad to go home, the atmosphere in the airplane light and giddy as they touch down at O’Hare around noon. He hangs around the Arrivals with Sharpy, both of them waiting to get picked up. Sharpy has just left when Patrick gets a text from Jonny:  **I’m outside, near the front** . He pulls along his suitcase with his right hand, the left side of his torso still throbbing with pain. He’s taken a few painkillers on the plane, but they’ve yet to start working. 

The doors slide open, and cold, wet air hits him in the face. The skies overhead are grey and the colors of the cars in the parking lot seem muted. He looks around and sees Jonny’s car parked along the sidewalk. As he walks up to it, the door on the driver’s side opens and Jonny gets out. He’s wearing a long, charcoal coat, the collar popped. He looks good, his tan skin giving him a healthy glow. Patrick clears his throat and looks down at where he’s walking, stepping off the sidewalk to reach the back of Jonny’s car. 

“Hey,” Jonny says, smiling at him. He presses a button on his key, the lid of the trunk opening up. 

“Hey. Thanks for coming to pick me up.” Patrick collapses the handle of his suitcase and bends down to pick it up. Jonny beats him, though, grabbing ahold of the handle and lifting the suitcase into the trunk. 

As he closes the lid, he gives Patrick a once-over. “You look like shit.” 

Patrick lets out a breathy laugh, suddenly overcome with an emotion he can’t identify. “I feel like it, too.”

“Get in, then,” Jonny says, walking around the car and getting in on the driver’s side. He can feel Jonny’s eyes on him as he gets into the car, his movements a little stilted. There’s a furrow between his brows. “Are you sure you’re okay? I know you said so over the phone, but you don’t move like it.”

Patrick leans back against the seat, slowly pulling the seatbelt across his chest. “I’m fine,” he mumbles. “It’s just the painkillers, they haven’t kicked in yet.”

Jonny starts the car, shaking his head slightly. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel, and Patrick notices.

“Hey, Jonny,” he says, going for a soothing tone. “It’s fine. I’m gonna sit out another game and I’ll be good to go.”

“If I’d been there, you never would’ve played against the Flames and it wouldn’t have gotten worse,” Jonny says, eyes fixed sternly on the road. “And you should’ve told the doctors, Pat, that you didn’t feel good right after you guys played the Blues.”

Patrick hunches in on himself a little, looking at the GPS on the screen. “I know. I will, next time. I just didn’t realize that night that it was that bad.”

Jonny hums. “You were calling me about it, that night, weren’t you? When I hung up early.”

“I didn’t call just for that,” Patrick offers, but Jonny’s expression already goes darker. 

“Make sure to tell me next time, Pat. I won’t hang up on you anymore. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place.” 

Patrick studies the side of Jonny’s face, and he takes in the tightness of Jonny’s shoulders. A small, vindictive part of him feels satisfied, pleased that Jonny will not hang up on him again in the future. A much larger part of him, though, feels bad about Jonny’s guilt. He clears his throat. 

“It’s fine, you deserve a night off with your boyfriend, without me complaining on the phone for half an hour.”

“You’re not complaining when you literally have an  _ injury _ ,” Jonny says, voice rising a bit near the end. He lets out a sigh, and doesn’t mention Patrick’s allusion to his boyfriend. Instead, he just says, “Tell me next time.”

Patrick looks out of the window, inhaling deeply. Jonny’s scent is enveloping him again, and he sinks a little deeper into the chair. “Alright.”


	4. four

Patrick ends up being out for two games in late November, one against the Wild at home and one against Dallas away. It’s a Monday night when he’s on the couch in his apartment, the sky having gone dark outside. The TV shows the Hawks and the Stars warming up, and he pushes his toes in between the cushions. Jonny’s sitting by the dining table, peering at his laptop screen and rummaging through the papers on the table top. He’s got the sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows and his black glasses pushed up on the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t wear them a lot, mostly late at night when he’s taken out his contacts. Every now and then he walks over to Patrick, needing his signature on various papers. 

Patrick shifts the phone to his other ear and sighs. “Why can’t I just give you guys my credit card for a weekend?” he offers, lifting up the remote to the TV and turning down the sound a little.

“Because,” Jess says, on the other end of the line, loudly chewing on some chips, “We get to do that every time we visit.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll think of something else,” Patrick concedes, his eyes moving across the Hawks game stats displayed on the screen. “How about a trip during the summer? We could go to Paris and climb the Eiffel tower.”

Jess hums, stopping her chewing for a second. “Yeah, maybe. I’ll put Jackie on, maybe she has some ideas.”

“Okay, talk to you later. Love you,” Patrick says absent-mindedly, watching the team come out onto the ice. Sharpy’s skating eights around the circle, talking to Seggs.

“You, too, Patty,” Jess replies, and he hears the shuffle of the phone being handed over.

“Hey, Pat,” Jackie says, voice bright. “How are the ribs?”

“Hi, Jacks. Doing much better, tonight’s probably the last game I’ll be out,” Patrick says, looking over at Jonny briefly, but he’s still hunched over his papers. “Listen, Jess and I were discussing what I could get you guys for Christmas. It’s gotta be something special, since I can’t make it out to Buffalo for the day.”

“Yeah, that really sucks,” Jackie says, sounding genuinely sad. It makes Patrick feel a little better. He misses them a lot, and he doesn’t like the prospect of a lonely Christmas. “We would’ve come out to you but mom and dad already planned that evening with the parents of Jess’ boyfriend. Mom thinks he’s gonna propose.”

“Impossible, he hasn’t called me yet,” Patrick says, rolling the frays of the blanket between his fingers. “He doesn’t have permission.”

“We don’t need your permission,” Jackie singsongs, before laughing a little. “Anyway, I remember Erica talking about some ideas, one of them was a trip for the four of us. She had more, though, but I’m not sure anymore what they were.”

“Is she there?” Patrick asks, “Then we can discuss it, y’know, eldest sibling style. We can discuss that boyfriend of Jess, too, while we’re at it.”

“Very funny,” Jackie drawls. “But no, she’s off to the gym. I’ll tell her you called, she’ll probably call back tomorrow.”

“Okay, sure. We can do a Skype call, I’ll send a message through the group chat.”

“Good plan, Patty. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Jacks, love you.”

“Love you, too.” 

Patrick presses the red button on the screen and lets his phone drop onto the couch. He turns a little, watching Jonny hunched over as he writes something down in the planner. His hair is growing out a little, the brown strands curling in the nape of his neck.

“Can you believe my sister might get a marriage proposal this Christmas, and I won’t be there to instill the fear of God into the dude?” 

Jonny snorts, closing the planner. “I’m sure Nick will make sure that you’re there for the proposal,” he says, standing up from his chair. He walks over to Patrick and pats his knee as he sits down on the other end of the couch. “Don’t worry about it.”

“He better,” Patrick mumbles, crossing his arms. “What were you working on?”

Jonny stretches his arms over his head, groaning a little as a joint pops in his spine. “The January schedule. It’s pretty full already. And there were some emails from your accountant about possible avenues to discover next year.”

“Avenues?” Patrick repeats, giving Jonny a confused glance. 

“Investments, mostly,” Jonny explains. “Maybe switching banks, or reconsidering your charity and foundation donations.”

Patrick straightens, ready to protest, but Jonny’s already there. “I’m not gonna allow him to do that, though. As for possible investments, I can schedule you an appointment if you want to. Doesn’t hurt to look into it at the start of the year.” 

Patrick settles down again. “An appointment is fine. It’s gotta be in January somewhere so you get to come, too. Without you there he’ll probably talk me into moving my money to the Cayman Islands. You’ll be back in Chicago by the first, right?”

“Yeah, earlier than that,” Jonny says, grabbing the remote and turning the volume back up. The Stars are on an early powerplay and Benn fires a shot, but it goes wide. Jonny frowns at the TV, but turns back to Patrick. “I’ll be in Chicago for New Year’s. I fly out for Winnipeg on the twenty-third and come in on the twenty-seventh.”

“You spending Christmas at your parents’ place?” 

“Part of it. We’re having a Christmas morning brunch at Chris’ parents’ house with his extended family and then we’ll go over to my parents’ place for dinner.”

Patrick tries not to give too much of a reaction, but he can count the times that Jonny has brought up his boyfriend on one hand. After the short call back when he was on the Circus Trip, they hadn’t really talked about it. He’s felt some sort of a barrier around the fact that Jonny likes men, and he doesn’t know where it came from. He’s definitely not a homophobe. Wasn’t raised like one, either. And while some guys in the locker room make off-handed remarks and rude jokes now and then, he’s never participated in any of it. 

About a week ago, while he was preparing an afternoon snack, he did hear Jonny pick up the phone in the living room. He’d been talking in rapid French, and Patrick’s hand had jerked a little when he heard Jonny say Chris’ name. The churning feeling he gets in his stomach whenever he’s reminded of the fact that Jonny’s got a French-talking boyfriend who’s probably gorgeous and super tall is completely new and strange for him. Maybe it’s because Jonny’s the first person in his inner circle to not be straight, he tells himself. It just takes some getting used to, even if he isn’t homophobic.

He tries to sound as normal as possible when he asks, “First time meeting the in-laws?”

“Some of them, yeah,” Jonny nods, “But I’ve met his parents and his brother before. My dad often buys stuff at his parents’ hardware store. Chris worked summers there when we were teenagers, so I knew them already.”

A hot, tall, French-Canadian with home-repair knowledge. Patrick sinks a little deeper into the couch and keeps his eyes fixed on the TV. The game is going at a fast pace and it’s hard to keep track of the gameplay. 

“You know what you should get your sisters for Christmas?” Jonny suddenly says, nudging Patrick’s shoulder with his knuckles. 

Patrick looks up. “Hm?”

“You should do a Canadian wilderness tour. I did one a few years ago, they’re fun.”

Patrick groans and grabs one of the throw pillows, hitting Jonny in the side with it. “No,” he says. “N_o._”

“It’s a great bonding experience,” Jonny says, his lips curling defensively. “Dave and I had the best time, when we weren’t hiding from the bears.”

“Do you even hear yourself speak?” Patrick asks. “Really think about it - _ do you_?” 

Jonny rolls his eyes, taking the throw pillow from Patrick’s hands and stuffing it behind his back. “I just thought I’d help. You were looking pretty desperate.”

“I’m pretty sure dumping us all in the forests of Canada is not going to make any Kane happy. We’ll figure something out. I have no doubt in my mind that one of my sisters can come up with some crazy expensive thing for us to do.”

He catches the the corners of Jonny’s lips curling upward, the skin around his eyes crinkling. 

“What?” he asks, trying not to stare.

Jonny shrugs, shaking his head a little. “Nothing, it’s just--it’s nice, the bond you have with them. All of you being so close despite the distance. You don’t hear that a lot.”

Patrick’s quiet for a bit, not sure how to react. “They’re easy to like,” he eventually pipes up. “All my sisters are awesome by association with me, so. ”

Jonny seems to be gearing up to counter that, when the Stars score a goal. On TV, Tyler Seguin is jumping in the arms of his teammates. Patrick groans, fisting his hands in his hair as the replay comes on. 

“Fuck, I should’ve been there” he mutters, letting his hands drop to cup his cheeks. “Tyler’s gonna be such an asshole about it, too. Could you drop my phone in the toilet for me?”

Jonny hufs out a soft laugh. “They’ll turn it around. And there’s nothing you could’ve done,” he says, following the replay of the goal with his eyes. “The Stars have a good powerplay and you guys don’t recover quickly enough. The goal was bound to happen.”

Patrick sighs, nodding along. “I’m not of much use when we’re on the PK, anyway.”

“You’ll be back in a few days,” Jonny reasons, “It’s gonna be fine. You’ll light it up as usual.”

A flush spreads across Patrick’s cheekbones at Jonny’s words, and he’s glad Jonny’s watching the TV. He’s saved from having to reply by Jonny’s phone, which starts buzzing across the dinner table. 

Jonny gets up, moving over to grab the phone. Patrick thinks he’ll go back to his papers, but Jonny picks up and walks back over to drop down onto the couch again. He mutes the TV as the first period transitions into the commercials. He watches some chips commercials while he listens to Jonny arranging a visit to a children’s hospital for him, eventually setting a date for the sixth of January.

They continue watching the Hawks after Jonny’s hung up and cleared away all his stuff from the dinner table. Even though Hossa managed to tie up the game in the third, they lose a few minutes into overtime. They’re both bummed out, Patrick more so than Jonny, feeling like it’s somehow his fault. 

“I know you don’t like to hear it but you’re not as important as you think you are,” Jonny tells him as he puts on his coat to head home, a teasing glint in his eyes.

It gets a smile out of Patrick, and he lightly shoves Jonny out of the door.

-

Halfway through December, Patrick has his first practice since the injury. He’s telling Jonny all about it afterwards as Jonny weaves a cart in between the aisles at Whole Foods_ . _ Patrick never goes here, not even after Jonny came into his life. Jonny prefers to drive a little further out, visiting smaller shops that are stocked up on local produce and biological products. It’s already late in the afternoon, however, so they compromised on Whole Foods.

Patrick’s beginning to wish that he’d just gone home to let Jonny go to all his hippie stores. With every product he takes from the shelves, Jonny grabs it out of his hands to inspect the label. Nine out of ten times he puts it back, taking a different product from the shelf that is often more healthy and--according to Patrick--more disgusting. 

They’ve spent over half an hour in the store already due to this charade so when Jonny makes Patrick put the bag of salted popcorn back on the shelf, Patrick finally snaps. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

“It has twenty-three ingredients, Pat,” Jonny says. He thrusts the bag label-first into Patrick’s face. “It’s popcorn. It should have corn, salt, and olive oil. That’s it.”

“We’re at _ Whole Foods, _for crying out loud,” Patrick says, directing his gaze towards the roof. “Besides, it’s FDA approved. It can’t be that bad.”

Jonny makes a choking noise, looking disdainfully at Patrick. “FDA appro--okay, you know what? You’re not allowed to come along with grocery shopping anymore.”

“I didn’t even wanna come, but you needed me to start using shampoo bars, remember?” Patrick fires back.

“Why don’t you go get that while I try to buy us food that won’t land either of us into an early grave, hm?” Jonny suggests, a bold glint in his eyes. 

“Fine,” Patrick snaps, stalking off. 

He turns the corner, leaving Jonny behind in the aisle with the snacks. He moves up and down a few aisles, and ends up taking the most expensive shampoo bar they have. It’s his own money he’s spending but Jonny always gets a sour look on his face when he thinks Patrick’s spending it wrong. It’s hard to feel victorious over a seaweed shampoo bar, though.

A few minutes go by as he walks around the store, his treacherous brain starting to agree with Jonny that twenty-three ingredients is a little much for popcorn. He’s looking at the array of toothpaste when he spots Jonny again, a little further down the aisle. He’s talking to an elderly woman, and reaches up to a high shelf to get the bag of pasta she’s pointing at. Patrick smiles when Jonny gets his cheek patted by the woman, his irritation ebbing away at the smile Jonny gives her. 

He’s about to walk towards the checkout counters when something catches his eye. He’d unknowingly wandered into the lifestyle aisle. Past the lighters, garbage bags, and strong-smelling candles is a small display of gift cards and advertisements for outings. His eyes fall onto a booklet. 

The booklet looks fancy, a minimalistic design of a stove underneath the title, which reads: _ A seven-part cooking workshop with Takashi Yagihashi, guest-judge on Top Chef and winner of the 2000 Best New Chef award. _Patrick takes it out of the rack and opens it. It’s a cooking class for a small number of people, on Wednesday afternoons for seven weeks. There’s a phone number at the bottom and an email address. It also says that the spots are strictly limited, and that the first class will be on fourteenth of January. 

He presses his lips together and folds the flyer up, tucking it in the inside pocket of his coat. 

-

On Saturday afternoon, Abby calls Jonny.

Patrick is working out, sweat dripping down his back as he ups the incline on the treadmill. He’s looking out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the snow fluttering down steadily, covering the world below in a thick layer. Jonny comes into the room, carrying a bottle of iced water and his phone squished between his ear and shoulder. 

“Hold on,” he says into the phone, gesturing for Patrick to stop the treadmill. “He’s right here.”

Patrick lets the treadmill slow down to a halt and gets off, using his towel to wipe at his hairline. “Who is it?”

“Abby,” Jonny says. “She wants to invite you to dinner.”

“Oh,” Patrick hangs the towel over the side rail of the treadmill and takes the phone from Jonny. “Hey Abs.”

“Hi Pat,” Abby says. Patrick can hear Sadie gurgling in the background, probably bouncing on Abby’s hip. “I wanted to ask you if you wanted to come over to dinner tonight? I’m making lasagna. And he’ll never admit it, but Patrick’s missed you while you were injured. Maddie’s been asking after you, too.”

Patrick can’t help but smile at the windows, listening to Abby talk about what Maddie’s been up to at preschool. He looks sideways and catches the tail end of Jonny’s expression, aimed at his back. It makes him feel strangely heated and exposed, with the way his sweaty shirt is clinging to his shoulder blades. God, he must smell awful. Jonny doesn’t look disgusted, though, just a little flushed as he fiddles with some of the settings on the treadmill. 

“She’s getting angry at me though for telling the story wrong,” Abby’s says, her voice pulling him out of his musings. “Says you’ve got to come over tonight so she can tell the story.”

“Of course, I have no plans tonight.” He looks up at Jonny to check. Jonny smiles a little, as if he’s amused by Patrick having to double check with him, and shakes his head. 

“Great!” Abby says. “Why don’t you bring Jonny, too? I haven’t talked to him since Duncs’ bowling event a few weeks ago.”

Patrick lets out an inward sigh. Bringing Jonny along with him to the Sharps is a recipe for disaster. Sharpy can’t stop needling him about his dependency on Jonny. And yeah, it’s true, but he likes to keep up the pretense that he’s not. He doesn’t need Sharpy to tell Jonny how he always feel kind of untethered on the road - a confession Sharpy only got out of him after plying him with too much tequila. Although it could be nice, bringing Jonny along. Jonny gets so happy when he eats good food, and Maddie adores him. He’s seen Jonny swing her around like an airplane after practice one time, her laughter ringing through the hallways. Jonny’s eyes had gone all squinty as he laughed along.

“I’ll ask him, one sec,” Patrick says, pressing mute on the call. “Wanna come with me to dinner tonight? You should, Abby makes the best lasagna. It’s so fucking good, you’ll love it. It’ll make you burst out of your pants by the end of the night but it’s so worth it.”

“Sounds tempting, but,” Jonny gives him an apologetic smile. “I’ve already got plans. Chris and I are going to a farmer tonight to pick out a Christmas tree for his place.”

“Oh.” Patrick feels his stomach sink a little. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. Jonny’s eyes are on his face so he manages to pull the corner of his mouth into a small smile and gives him a quick shrug. “Some other time then.”

“Definitely,” Jonny nods.

Patrick repeats the smile, nodding as well. He takes the call off mute. “You still there?” 

“With a few hundred hairs less on my head with the way Sadie’s been pulling at them, but yeah, still here. You guys both coming?” Abby asks. 

“No, just me. Jonny’s got plans already.” He pinches the fabric of his leggings, worrying it between his fingers. 

“Get him to cancel, you’re his boss,” Abby jokes. 

Patrick lets out a dry laugh. “I, uh, don’t think that’s allowed. Some other time.”

“Okay,” Abby acquiesces. “I’ll hold you both to that. I wanted to eat a little early tonight because Maddie has an early soccer practice in the morning. You good with that?”

“Of course, I’ll be there around five, then.”

“Alright, see you, Patty.”

“See you,” Patrick says, taking the phone away from his ear and hanging up. He gathers his towel and headphones in his hand and takes the water Jonny offers him. 

“Sorry ‘bout tonight,” Jonny says. He seems genuinely apologetic. “I’ll make sure to double check before I plan anything.”

Patrick lets out a noise around the rim of the bottle, shaking his head. A few drops of water spill down his chin. He wipes them away with the back of his hand, seeing Jonny’s eyes on his mouth, tracking the movement. “Don’t. It’s your night off. I get it if you’d rather spend it, y’know, without me.”

“That’s not true, I love spending time with you,” Jonny protests.

“Oh. Um,” Patrick says, nonsensically. He’s a little taken aback by the matter-of-fact tone to Jonny’s voice. “I, uh, like spending time with you, too.”

Jonny’s eyes soften at that. “Thanks,” he says. “So I’ll call Abby back next week to plan another dinner together, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Patrick nods, following Jonny out of the work-out room. 

“We could ask them over ‘round here, too, sometime? I’ve got this mung bean pasta dish I’ve been wanting to try.” 

Patrick stares stupidly at Jonny’s ankles as he walks, bringing his eyes back up when Jonny turns around to face him.

“Would that be okay?” Jonny asks.

Patrick smiles. “Definitely.”

-

Patrick eats his weight in lasagna that night with Maddie’s cat Bagel curled up on his lap. He’d put Sadie to bed with Sharpy before they got seconds and now Maddie is listing sideways against her dad, her mouth red with sauce. He scrapes the side of his bowl with his fork, putting the cheesy remnants in his mouth. Bagel is purring loudly and he puts his fork down to sink his fingers into her fur. 

“Do you want to take some leftovers home, Pat?” Abby asks, taking a sip of her red wine. 

Patrick nods. “Yeah, Jonny’s gonna go nuts for it.”

“Giving up Abby’s lasagna to Jonny?” Sharpy asks, slowly lifting Maddie into his arms. She yawns and pushes her forehead against Sharpy’s neck. “Guess I hadn’t known true love, yet.”

Abby rolls her eyes, swatting at Sharpy’s arm with an oven mitt. Turning to Patrick, she says, “I’ll make sure to put some in a Tupperware for you guys. It comes at a price, though. Jonny’s got to come with next time. I’d like a bit of cultured conversation over dinner sometime.” 

“I’m cultured,” Patrick protests, feigning insult.

Sharpy looks unimpressed. “I have a video on my phone of you making baby noises at Sadie for ten minutes.” 

“Which is gonna do wonders for her verbal development,” Patrick counters. 

Abby laughs, standing up from table and giving Sharpy a kiss on his cheek. “Go put your daughter to bed. Patrick and I will clean up here.” 

Patrick balances his glass on his empty plate, blowing a kiss at Maddie. She gives him a sleepy wave over Sharpy’s shoulder before they disappear up the stairs. 

Abby rinses the dishes and hands them over to Patrick to put in the dishwasher. 

“Remember we used to do this when you were a rookie?” Abby grins, handing a wet measuring cup to Patrick. 

Patrick smiles, putting the cup upside down in the dishwasher. He does remember those days. It had been nice to come over a few nights a week to have dinner with the both of them. It’d become the three of them pretty quickly, which he’d found even better. He’d been there when Maddie threw up her first vegetable puree all over Sharpy’s gameday suit. He’d never much liked having to go back to an empty apartment at the end of the night. He’s always been too busy to really feel lonely, but he’d always felt the edges of it creeping in sometimes, after the long days. It’s better with Jonny around, now. 

Jonny’s not loud, or overly present. He’s just. He’s there. It’s the intrinsic awareness that he can look up, and most of the time, Jonny will already be looking back.

It’s as if she knows where his thoughts have wandered off to, because the next things Abby says is, “I’m surprised you still know how to fill up a dishwasher. I thought Jonny was doing it for you now?” 

Abby doesn’t tease him like Sharpy does. Sharpy either teases him to be a dick, or to confront him with something he doesn’t want to address head first by concealing it into a snarky remark. Abby does the latter, too, but she’s more gentle about it. With Sharpy, he often chirps back with something else, not deigning to reply to what he’s needling at. They’ll have a heart to heart, sometimes, sure. Manly tears are usually involved, too. But Abby’s judgemental streak has never extended to him, which should be an NHL award in and of itself. 

So instead of telling her to fuck off, like he’d do with Sharpy, he simply shrugs and says, “He insists on doing them by hand, most of the time. Better for the environment or something.”

Abby snorts. “Let me guess, he stands there by the sink with a towel draped over his shoulder, looking like the Canadian Ryan Gosling.”

“Ryan Gosling _ is _ Canadian, how do you not know that?” Patrick says. He feels his cheeks heat a little. “He does do the towel thing, though.”

“Of course he does,” Abby laughs. “The guy is boyfriend material through and through.” 

Now he’s sure his cheeks must be red. “Well, it seems to have worked for him, so.”

“Right,” Abby says. “Pat mentioned he’s got a boyfriend here in Chicago. Something like a childhood sweetheart, right?” 

Patrick shrugs. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

“So you haven’t met him yet?” Abby asks, washing her hands after handing the spatula over to Patrick to put in the dishwasher.

“Ah, no,” Patrick shakes his head, closing the dishwasher. He’s come close a few times. One time he was dropping Jonny off at this trendy vegetarian restaurant on their way back from a game. He’d only seen the back of a head, but that had been enough for a twisting feeling in his gut that hadn’t left him for the rest of the night. “I’m meeting him at the airport next week, I think. I’m dropping Jonny off for Christmas.”

“I wonder what he’s like. You can ask him to come along too next time.” 

Patrick pulls a face, a little surprised by how very much he does _ not _ want to do that. “I’ll think about it.” 

He’s saved from having to explain himself by Sharpy coming back downstairs. 

“She’s all washed, kissed, and tucked in. I’ve read her The Rainbow Fish three times, but apparently I do the voices wrong,” he tells Abby. 

Abby dries her hands. “That’s because you make the fish sound sad all the time. I’ll go up, you boys pick out the movie.”

Patrick opens his mouth.

“Not Finding Dory.” 

He closes it again. 

As Abby goes upstairs he lets himself get herded over to the couch by Sharpy, flopping down into the comfy corner. He smiles to himself as he watches Sharpy figure out Netflix on the TV from underneath a blanket.

It’s not an evening with Jonny, but still. It’s nice. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! feedback is lovingly drooled upon <3


End file.
